


Divertissement

by SapphyreLily



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Casual Sex, Drug Use, M/M, please don't read this if you can't take that sort of stuff, this entire fic has a lot of negative habits in it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 04:59:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10632714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: People try many ways to forget - there are the good, and the bad.This is the bad.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [Habits by Tove Lo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oh2LWWORoiM)
> 
> This is a very sad song so here is a very sad fic, with a lot of ways that you _should not_ use to try and forget someone. 
> 
> (I'm actually kind of sorry for posting this on Kawanishi's birthday.)

He looks up blearily – the ceiling is cracked and brown with water stains, the plaster sagging and sad. He blinks slowly, coming into himself second by excruciating second, feeling the dryness of his throat, the gross stickiness in his mouth.

He forces his eyes open again – when had he closed them? Opened them? He isn’t sure – fingers groping blindly, bumping into the cool surface a million times before they reach the edge, curling around the grimy rim.

He pulls himself up, and stops. The world is spinning, too many colours but mostly black spots, vision wavering like a bouncy boat.

His head hurts, he needs to lie down, he needs water – he can already hear his voice, coaxing, reprimanding, lov–

He pulls himself over the edge of the tub, dragging himself to the sink to rinse out his mouth, squeezing out toothpaste but completely missing the toothbrush. He stares at the blob in the sink, not really focusing, just a little confused.

**_Taichi–_ **

He cuts the voice out by brushing ferociously, slowing down only because the movement makes his head throb.

A splash of water on his face, a hurried comb through his hair – he really should shower, when was the last time he did? – and he’s out the door, two slices of plain bread in hand.

It’s not yet full night – it could be five, six? – but he gets on the train anyway, sluggishly waiting for his stop. He can’t remember which club he was at last night, but he has an urge to go to this particular one. Maybe his ‘friend’ will be there.

The bouncer waves him in and he heads for the bar, tossing back the shot placed in front of him. It slides down his throat like liquid fire – or that’s what he’d say, but it has always tasted like the smell of seventy percent alcohol to him. Like the clean smell of labs, the sterility and the white back of a lab coat, dotted with ballpoint graffiti–

He pops a couple of peanuts in his mouth, crunching them as he calls for another drink.

It’s too early to get on the dance floor, but if he drinks too fast, he’ll be too wasted later to find anyone. And he needs to. He needs someone. One night spent alone is one night too many, especially after–

He taps the counter, gesturing to the bartender. The man raises an eyebrow, as if to say _Already?_ but points to an alcove off the side of the dance floor, surreptitiously sliding him a little packet.

“There’s someone there, waiting,” he tells him. “He likes being watched.”

He nods his thanks, sliding off the stool and downing the last bit of his drink. It’s not a far walk to the alcove, but he wobbles, vision swimming, blurred at the edges.

He hopes, vaguely, that no bouncer will kick him out for being intoxicated.

(Is he? Intoxicated? He thought he had a pretty high tolerance.)

(Maybe it’s because he hasn’t eaten in so long. Proper food, that is.)

**_(Vegetables are good for you, not that I like them either–)_ **

(He quashes the thought.)

He slips into the curtained area, eyes slowly adjusting, finally making out the slim figure sitting there. The man is sipping at a drink, and the way the light slides through his light hair, disappearing at the ends, makes his heart ache a little less.

The man tilts his head, cautiously curious, but his smirk belies his amusement. “Hello.”

“Hello.” His voice is rough, and cracks a little – he coughs to cover it, but the man has noticed. He clicks his tongue and offers him his glass, pressing it into his hand even though he tries to wave it off.

“Take a drink,” he sneers. “If you got here before my partner, then you’re fair game.”

“Is that why the bartender sent me here?”

“Aw, you’re new. That’s precious. Yes,” the man rolls his eyes, “If he knows you need a distraction, I take anyone. Especially since my partner's late.”

He doesn’t question further, but lifts the glass to his lips, the alcohol permeating his senses.

The moment the glass hits the table, a pair of lips are on his, hot and hungry, pressing in with the insistency of a man starved. He finds himself pushing back, licking the alcohol out of his mouth, teeth tugging roughly.

Cold fingers cradle his face, and he leans in, falling into the feeling.

There’s someone clicking their tongue behind him, and he pulls away, gasps, surfaces to look.

Oh.

The slighter man shakes his head, expression hidden by shadows. “You didn’t wait for me.”

“You were late,” the man attached to his side says, and he can feel him shrug. The next moment, he has pulled away, reaching out to the newcomer who climbs into his lap eagerly, fusing their lips as if their little altercation never happened.

He watches them as if he’s in a dream, head light, mouth throbbing, skin burning from where he had been touched. There’s something about the way they look like they’re devouring each other – hands everywhere, mouths fighting for dominance, that makes him yearn for more, and he wants in.

The newcomer pulls away and tilts his head at him. “Come on. I can feel you watching.”

That’s all the permission he needs.

And so, for a few hours, he loses himself in them, in starlight locks with blackened ends, in burnished copper, heated to burning.

\-----

He stumbles into his apartment, kicking the shoe rack, dropping his keys on the table – oh damn, they’re on the floor. Never mind.

He can’t be bothered to pick them up – he’s so hungry.

Even in his post-drug haze, he can tell that there’s nothing in his apartment to eat – nothing that would satisfy him, and there probably isn’t any fresh food either. He sighs and squats in front of a cabinet, staring gloomily at its contents – oh, there’s a pack of Oreos. That’ll do.

The cookies are soft but he scarfs them down anyway, poking at the empty wrapper with a sigh when they’re gone. He’d have spent more time bemoaning his lack of food, but a surge of nausea hits him, and he barely makes it upright and to the sink before his stomach empties itself.

The mess in the sink is disgusting, mostly liquid but also chunks of Oreo – he laughs. When did he become this objective about a bodily process he despises?

He washes the vomit away and trudges to the shower. Even if he can’t function properly, he still has hot water, and that would be a relief.

He barely remembers how to shower – shampoo? Soap? Conditioner? Wait, face wash? – but it feels good to stand under the hot spray anyway. What was that he read somewhere? People starved of human contact spend longer in the shower?

He never wants to leave the water's embrace.

But he does, eventually, and falls into his unmade bed, clean and dry against sour-smelling sheets. He wrinkles his nose, but can’t be bothered to move; it’s warm, and that’s all he needs right now.

Sleep does not come, despite his best efforts, and he lies in his cocoon, thoughts light and airy.

_I should wash my clothes._

_The house needs cleaning._

_More food would be nice._

_Why can’t someone else do this for me?_

An exasperated sigh sounds in the back of his mind, and he bites his lip, turning onto his side and curling up.

No. He won’t. He won’t go there.

That time is over, and it won’t return. He’s not allowed to feel anything about it–

But the barrier in his mind has opened, and the last memories of their fight rises to the surface – he’s a helpless spectator in his own memory, unable to stop the tears from dripping from his eyes, unable to say anything past the rock in his throat.

_Please._

_Don’t go._

\-----

He sits in the laundromat, staring mindlessly at the spinning machines, thoughts wispy.

It’s not crowded, and the few other people in here with him are busy at their own thing, loading, unloading, transfixed by their phones.

His gaze slides off them, up to the machine, down to his hands.

They are nice hands, he supposes. Large, long-fingered, big palms – perfect for volleyball, which is why he started playing all those years ago.

Huh. Volleyball. He hasn’t played that in a while.

A long while. Middle school, maybe. Or was it elementary?

He lifts one of his hands, pokes at his forearm, his bicep, feeling the softness of the muscle.

Hmm. Probably elementary school.

He lets his hand drop, lets his head fall forward, until all he sees is the threadbare clothes he has on, and the boniness of his legs.

He smiles to himself, a little giggle escaping.

He’s so ridiculous.

He knows what he’d say if he were here, something like–

**_You’re too skinny! Have you been eating well? Exercising? C'mon, let’s go for a run, it’ll be good for you–_ **

He gasps suddenly, arms going around himself, rocking back and forth, biting his lip to keep any more sounds from escaping. His heart is a bleeding mass, blood throbbing through the mashed pulp, and he – he is hurting, so much, so badly, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

_I miss you I miss you Imissyou Where are you?_

He stuffs his fist into his mouth, biting down, and the taste of blood doesn’t even bother him – he bites down harder, eyes squeezing shut, breathing heavily, heavily–

It hurts.

But he’s gone, and he has to deal with it.

\-----

“Look at you, all pretty and spread for me.”

He tries to hold back his whimper, but he can’t, and there’s a body on top of him, the weight disgusting but all-encompassing. A mouth fits itself over his, hot and moist and repulsive, and the friction against his cock makes him gasp.

The person bites down, kisses him briefly, moves to lave their way down his body, fingers trailing, leaving sticky imprints that he hates.

But he asked for this, he put himself here.

He needs to forget.

He gasps as something is slid over his cock, the tightness unyielding. The person chuckles, then kisses the tip. Their fingers have slid downwards, prodding, probing.

“Let’s see how long you last, hmm?”

His voice catches in his throat, his wrists tug against his restraints, but he can’t move, can’t run, as the white washes over him, takes him under.

\-----

He feels numb, passed from one person to another like a toy.

But he’s not complaining. If it helps him forget, if it’s something he can lose himself in, to keep the thoughts away, he’ll take it.

He opens his mouth, and lets the next person force themselves on him.

\-----

He’s back at the bar, back at downing drink after drink until he loses all control.

He suspects it’ll be another drink or two before he can’t recall anything, and he can’t wait to get there.

A slim hand fits itself over his as he’s about to lift the glass, and he blearily follows it up to a face he knows well. A slow smile spreads over his face, and he tries to greet him. “Kenjirou.”

Kenjirou frowns at him, forcing his hand down, leaning in to sniff his breath. He wrinkles his nose and steps away, coughing lightly. “Gosh, Taichi, do you never _stop_?”

“Dunno what you’re talking about.” He thinks he says it – he probably slurred it – and turns back to his glass, admiring the way the neon lights reflect in it.

He thinks he hears a sigh, and the hand is back, prying his fingers off the glass. “Come on. You're sitting with me.”

“But–” He stares after his glass – he paid for that – and Kenjirou sighs, turning to pluck the glass from the table before he steers him away.

He's unceremoniously shoved into a booth and the glass set in front of him, and he wraps his hands around it protectively.

“What is he doing?”

He knows that voice, too.

He looks up, meeting dark eyes framed by starlight locks, and a grin plasters itself to his face. “Eita!”

Eita shakes his head and turns his eyes on Kenjirou, who shrugs. “Found him like this at the bar.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

He tunes them out, picks the glass up and downs half its contents, grimacing at the burn, but feels mildly better at the warmth blooming in his insides.

Another hand is on his, but it doesn’t push his glass away – it wraps itself around his, squeezing lightly, until he turns to lock eyes with its owner.

Under the pulses of light, his eyes look shimmery, and he wants to laugh, but he can also see the emotion lying under them. “What?”

“Taichi, _you_ tell me what.” Eita pries his hand off the glass but keeps hold of it – his hand is warm, that’s nice – and he has to lean back against the seat so he can see him properly. His head is so heavy, why?

“What am I supposed to tell you?”

“Taichi,” it’s Kenjirou who speaks this time, and his tone is laced with that funny emotion – what is it called? He can’t remember.

“Taichi, you’re here almost every day. That can’t be healthy.”

He tries to shake his head, but it just flops a little more on the seat. “No. Guess not.”

“Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Because he needs to forget.

“I dunno,” his mouth says. “I like it.”

The duo exchange looks – honestly, _what_ is that emotion? – and turn back to him, eyes serious. “We’re taking you home.”

“No.” He bats at Eita’s hand, but it’s more like a weak flop. “Don’t wanna.”

“Finish your drink and we’ll take you home,” Eita says. “It’s about time we used your place instead of one of ours anyway.”

He thinks about it; that makes sense, but… “My place is messy, don’t want you to see.”

Eita shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. As long as there’s a bed.”

He nods slowly – that does make sense – and reaches for his drink.

He thinks he can hear a hissed argument from beside him as he drinks, and lifts his eyes tiredly. “What?”

Kenjirou folds his arms, and Eita gives him a reassuring smile. “Nothing. Kenjirou doesn’t want to bottom, that’s all.”

 _Is that really it?_ He raises his eyebrows. “I can bottom.”

They stare at him – Kenjirou's mouth has fallen open, and he tells him to shut it. “You’ll catch flies.”

Eita snorts and Kenjirou punches him; he turns back to the dregs of his drink, watching the light catch and spin in it.

\-----

They do go to his, in the end, and he leads them straight to the bedroom. The door is barely shut when they are on him, clothes falling away, lips and hands and teeth everywhere.

It’s too easy to fall backwards and let them have their way with him, and even when he is spent and they keep going – there’s something beautiful in the way the moonlight falls over their naked forms, outlining them like marble statues.

He lies there in a haze, eyes and mind drifting, past and present mixing.

\-----

_“What’s this?”_

_“Shh, you'll wake him.”_

_“Well, answer me!”_

_“Looks like…a boyfriend? A lover?”_

_“I knew that.”_

_“Then don’t ask.”_

_“Do you think he still has his number?”_

_“Why? What are you going to do?”_

_“He’s obviously heartbroken, look at him.”_

_“Yes, and it would be such a great idea to call the man who broke his heart.”_

_“Shut up. It’s obvious that he’s not over him. And he’s killing himself, do you really not want to help him?”_

_“…urgh.”_

_“Help me find his number.”_

\-----

There’s a light hand on his forehead, a gentle, calloused hand. He leans into the touch, sighing deeply. He must be dreaming.

A whisper, an exasperated sigh. “Taichi…”

He smiles. He’s missed that voice.

“Hayato?”

A strong arm around his back, hauling him upright. His head spins, and he slumps against the person, groggy.

“C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He must be dreaming. There’s no way he’s actually here.

(But it’s a nice dream, he’ll oblige it.)

He's seated in the tub, warm water cascading over him, dextrous fingers in his hair.

He thinks he smiles, because that’s comfortable, that’s wonderful, and he’s missed that touch.

Then he’s dry again, a cool surface on his lips, smooth, clean water sliding down his throat. He’s laid down, something warm covering him, and he drifts off.

It is a pleasant dream.

\-----

It’s dark when he wakes, and he blinks sleepily to clear the film from his eyes. He nearly rolls off the couch, and furrows his brow. Wasn’t it a dream?

But then his gaze lifts, and fixes itself on the person sleeping in the armchair, his face softly illuminated by the lamp beside him.

He can’t breathe.

It’s him.

It’s really him.

His heart is minced meat, torn apart and left for dead, and he can barely hold back his sob. But he lifts the blanket and drapes it over him, and retreats to his room, closing the door.

Only then does he break, and the memories come flooding back.

\-----

There are arms around him, strong, sturdy, and a scent he would recognise anywhere. He tries to break away, tries to run, to hide and protect himself – he doesn’t know if he can survive being hurt again.

There’s a soft voice in his ear, gently coaxing, reassuring, but all it does is make him sob harder.

It’s a long time before he can stop, a long time more before he does understand, an even longer time before he accepts the hand that pulls him to his feet.

The hug that follows makes him shudder with the onset of fresh tears, but he chokes them back, squeezing more tightly to keep himself in check.

He’s okay. They’re okay.

They’ll be okay.


End file.
